


Nice Work If You Can Get It

by sassyjumper



Series: Tiny House [5]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Gen, Humor, Unresolved Sexual Tension, tiny houses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 14:45:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1351312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassyjumper/pseuds/sassyjumper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House catches his first PI case; Wilson flirts with people. Set post-finale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nice Work If You Can Get It

 

 

 

“The best part is, now I can call you a dick, and you won’t know if I’m insulting you.”

House looked up from his burger to see Wilson standing in the front doorway, grinning goofily and holding his hands behind his back.

“See, that’s the difference between you and me,” House informed him. “I prefer my insults to be really obvious.”

He returned his attention to the juicy goodness on his plate. He’d topped this particular burger with bacon and caramelized onions, and nestled it all in a toasted brioche bun. He had no time for Wilsonian shenanigans.

That mental telegram apparently didn’t get through, because as House wrapped his mouth around his heavenly creation, Wilson sauntered over and presented what he’d been hiding behind his back. A DVD. With the title, _So You Want to be a Private Investigator._

House thoroughly chewed and swallowed his food, because he believed in safety before ridicule.

“A DVD on how to be a private investigator? Why didn’t you just get the _Magnum, P.I._ box set?”

Wilson shook his head. “No way. You’re not learning how to be a P.I. from Tom Selleck. You’ll demand a Ferrari.”

“Plus colorful shirts and the occasional helicopter ride,” House confirmed. “Damn. This P.I. idea just keeps sounding better—and less related to reality.”

“That’s why I got the DVD,” Wilson explained. “It says it’ll give a realistic picture of the job, including the boring parts.”

“I think I have a pretty clear idea,” House said before taking another huge mouthful of burger. Wilson waited patiently for him to down it. “You basically trail a bunch of losers wearing fake neck braces or answering booty calls from someone other than their spouse.”

Wilson nodded slowly. “That’s…a big part of it, yes. But you do get to essentially examine people from a distance—your favorite coordinates—and then expose the truth. That is _sooo_ up your alley.”

House couldn’t deny that. And as much as he sometimes wanted to get off of Wilson’s crazy train, he also wanted to see what the next stop would be.

“OK,” he agreed. “Leave it by the laptop. I’ll try to fit it into my busy sked.”

Wilson grinned in that irritating way of his, then did as instructed—with nary a word on House’s meal choice.

_Good._ He may have been willing to fake-die for Wilson, but like hell was he giving up burgers.

 

*******

 

When House walked through the front door to find Wilson waiting for him with barely contained glee, he knew nothing good could be in store.

“Hey,” Wilson greeted him. “So, do you remember Fran from the co-op?”

“Of course not.” House set the car keys down and limped toward the fridge.

“Right. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is, she has a daughter in need of your services.”

House turned to face him, but before he could make a sound Wilson held up a hand. “Not that kind. She needs your P.I. expertise.”

His smiled broadly, and it was such a hopeful, genuine smile that House almost felt he shouldn’t shatter it. Almost.

“My expertise? I barely watched fifteen minutes of your stupid DVD.” He grabbed the pitcher of Wilson’s homemade iced tea and his own unwashed glass from that morning. “And I don’t recall authorizing a marketing plan, by the way.”

Wilson dipped his head. “Oh, um. Yeah. I was just down at the co-op today, and it sort of came up in conversation with a couple people.”

“It casually came up in a couple conversations?” House took a gulp from his glass and immediately grimaced at the overwhelming tea flavor. “God, did you put any sugar in this?”

Wilson frowned. “I used a dollop of agave nectar. It’s better than sugar.”

House groaned. “OK, nothing is better than sugar. Speaking of, do we still have some?”

“Yes,” Wilson replied with an eye-roll. “In the cabinet over the sink, next to your Vicodin—where it’s always been.”

At least Wilson knew how to organize their things for maximum efficiency. “All right,” House said as he retrieved the sugar. “Now tell me how this all went down.”

“Well…I was at the co-op, and…”

“Yes, yes?”

Wilson sighed. “And I hung up a couple flyers.”

House narrowed his eyes. “Lucy, whaju do?”

Wilson crossed his arms defensively. “We need to get the word out. Greg Daniels, P.I., is available for business.” He offered a tentative smile.

House just stared.

“Anyway,” Wilson went on, “Fran saw me putting up the flyer, and she got really excited. She said her daughter needs help.”

House’s logical mind was telling him this was crazy. He could not masquerade as a private investigator, even among the hippy dopes of Sebastopol. But curiosity, as always, won out.

“What kind of help?”

Wilson smirked, like the little bastard he was. “I knew you couldn’t resist.”

“What. Kind?”

“She thinks someone is watching her. In her house, at night.”

House screwed up his face. “Isn’t that the kinda thing you take to the police?”

“Fran said she’s called the cops. Twice. Both times, it took them twenty minutes to get there, and they said there were no signs of a peeper. I get the impression the Sebastopol police force isn’t exactly a crack unit.”

“And we are?” House questioned, limping to the lounge with his now-perfect tea.

“We just have to do what the police won’t. We’ll stake out the place and be there when the peeper arrives.”

This conversation was getting surreal. “And then what?” House challenged. “You’ll lecture him into submission?”

“No. I’ll call 911. And if he takes off before the cops arrive, we’ll follow him.”

“Oh, fantastic.”

Wilson huffed in annoyance. “Or at the very least, we can catch him on video, and Melissa will have something to show the police.”

House pinned him with a stare. “Ah, Melissa. You haven’t saved a damsel in distress in a while.”

Hands predictably found hips. “House, she’s a young woman living alone. Fran is worried sick, but Melissa won’t come stay with her. They need help.”

Wilson unleashed those Earnest Eyes that never failed to either guilt-trip him or piss him off. In this case, it was the former.

“Gawd,” House grumbled. “Fine. But I wanna talk to _Melissa_ before I commit to sitting in a Honda Civic with you all night.”

Wilson nodded. “Fair enough. We probably need to see her place in daylight anyway. You know, to scope out the best place for surveillance and stuff.” He giggled.

“Good thinking, Sam Spade.” House leaned down to grab his laptop. “Can you go away now? I obviously need to finish this instructional DVD, ASAP.”

“Sure. I, uh, have something I need to work on anyway,” Wilson said cryptically.

_Uh-oh._

“No more marketing,” House warned. “Let’s just see how this little plan goes before you buy billboard space.”

Wilson fanned his hands. “Don’t worry. This has nothing to do with your career.”

House wasn’t sure how to take that. On one hand, he did not like the gleam he was seeing in Wilson’s eyes; on the other hand, he liked it a lot. It was as if he were looking at pre-thymoma Wilson—albeit a frailer, messier version in worn, grass-stained jeans and a holier-than-thou T-shirt that urged, “Plant More Trees.”

Leave it to Wilson to buy a T-shirt that lectured.

“Great,” House said. “Go do your thing that has nothing to do with me.”

Wilson gave him an odd little smile. “I’m taking the car, OK?”

House grunted his assent, then watched as Wilson left. Something was definitely afoot.

He turned back to his laptop. “Good thing I know an awesome P.I.”

 

*******

 

Melissa Breyer did not live in a tiny house. She lived in a normal one, situated on a block with other normal ones. That alone scored her points in House’s book.

_My point-scoring standards have really plummeted,_ he lamented as he parked in her driveway.

“You’re staring,” Wilson piped up from the passenger seat. “Do you see something?”

“Yeah. A real house. I’d forgotten what they were like.”

Wilson sighed and unbuckled his seatbelt. “C’mon. She was expecting us twenty minutes ago. Don’t tell her how we got lost on the way—it doesn’t sound very P.I.-like.”

“Oh, like they never get lost,” House bitched as he got out of the car. Mentally, he forfeited the argument to Wilson; if he were P.I.-shopping, he’d probably pass on the guy who couldn’t follow the directions to his house.

Verbally, however, he opted to blame Wilson. “And I would’ve been fine if you weren’t distracting me with your constant nagging about the speed limit, and yellow lights, and children crossing the street. Blah-blah.”

“OK,” Wilson said, in that annoying tone of appeasement. “Let’s not subject the client to our bickering.”

House silently mimicked him as he rang the doorbell. A few moments later, a woman called through the door. “Who is it?”

“Hi, Melissa?” Wilson said. “It’s James Wilson and Greg Daniels.”

The door opened to reveal a tall, comely blonde. “Sorry,” she said with a shy smile. “I figured it was you, but you can’t be too careful.”

“Of course,” Wilson said, brandishing his own James Wilson Gentle Smile: Formulated for Blondes.

House gave him a knowing look. “Fran totally showed you a picture of her.”

“Um, pardon?” Melissa asked, looking back and forth between them.

“Nothing,” Wilson said breezily. “Greg has an odd sense of humor. All the stakeouts and sleepless nights get to you.” He added a disarming chuckle, and Melissa’s smile returned.

“I imagine,” she sympathized. “Come in. Please.”

They stepped inside and House immediately swung a right into the living room. “Dude, she has a couch.”

“Yes,” Melissa replied, following him into the room. “That’s pretty standard, isn’t it?”

“Not for us.” House flopped onto the couch and propped his legs on the coffee table.

“We live in a tiny house,” Wilson clarified. “No room for a couch.”

“Oh, right,” Melissa exclaimed. “Mom did mention that. So you two are…” She smiled and blushed a little. “Um, together?”

“Togeth—Oh, no, no.” Wilson’s face flushed to match hers. “We’re roommates.”

House stretched his arms along the back of the couch and soaked up the awkwardness.

Melissa winced. “I’m sorry. I just assumed because…Well, tiny houses are so…”

“Gay?” House suggested.

Wilson held up his hands. “OK.” He shot a lightening-quick glare at House, then graced Melissa with a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about it. We’re here to talk about you.”

Melissa crossed her arms and sighed. “Yeah.” She sat in the chair opposite House and gestured for Wilson to sit next to him. “I’m not sure how much my mother told you.”

“She said someone has been prowling around your house and looking in the windows,” Wilson said.

“Actually,” House broke in, putting his feet on the floor and leaning forward. “She said you _think_ that’s what’s going on.”

He could feel Wilson’s eyes on him, but chose to ignore it.

Melissa hesitated. “Well, yes, I guess that’s true. I haven’t clearly seen the guy—assuming it’s a guy.”

House flapped a hand. “Oh, _gurl,_ it’s always a guy…Except, of course, when it isn’t.”

Melissa blinked, and Wilson sighed.

“Tell me, exactly, why you think someone’s watching you,” House pressed.

“OK.” Melissa glanced at Wilson, as if looking for support. “It started a couple weeks ago. I was sitting there on the couch, and from the corner of my eye I noticed some movement outside those windows.” She pointed to the bay windows to House’s right, facing the back of the house.

“I stood up to get a closer look, and then a white light flashed a couple times, like someone was taking my picture.” Melissa bit her lip and looked from House to Wilson and back again. “And then it happened a few nights later, almost exactly the same way.”

“And you called the police both times?” Wilson asked.

“Yes, I…”

House didn’t catch the rest, because his focus was drawn to the flat-screen TV to Melissa’s left. God, the thing was huge. What he wouldn’t give to lie back in that sofa and watch porn in the manner the lord had intended…

_Wait._

He looked at Melissa. “Were you watching TV?”

She and Wilson both regarded him in confusion. “Was I watching TV…when I saw the guy outside?”

“Yeah,” House said impatiently.

“Um, I think so. Why do you ask?”

He ignored the question. “What were you watching?”

“Hou—Greg,” Wilson intervened. “Is that really relevant?”

“Uh, _yeah._ ”

Melissa shook her head. “I can’t remember. Why is it important?”

“Action-adventure?” House prompted. “Lots of explosions? Maybe an alien invasion?”

Melissa just stared dumbly for a moment. “Well,” she said slowly, “I do watch shows like that. So yeah, it’s possible.”

House grinned. “You don’t have a peeper. You have occipital lobe epilepsy.”

Melissa’s eyebrows shot up. “I—what?…Wait, you’re a P.I. What do you know about epilepsy?”

“He is,” Wilson rushed to confirm. “But I’m a doctor, actually. Greg has picked up a lot hanging out with me.”

It took exquisite orbital-muscle control for House not to roll his eyes.

“And he’s right,” Wilson added with a sigh. “It could be epilepsy.”

“Photosensitive occipital lobe epilepsy,” House amended. “The pyrotechnic displays on the TV trigger the seizure, and it manifests as short-lived visual disturbances. The seizures probably originate in your left cortex, since you’re seeing the camera-wielding peeper off to your right.”

“Um, OK.” Melissa gave a shaky little laugh, then turned to Wilson. “So…What should I do?”

“Well, you have to make an appointment with your doctor to get a definite diagnosis. You may need to see a neurologist.”

Melissa shook her head in dismay. “But would I just be developing epilepsy now? I’m twenty-six.”

Wilson bobbed his head side-to-side. “It usually starts either early or late in life, but it can begin at any age. And you know, seizures are often subtle. It’s possible you’ve been having them for a while and just didn’t know it.”

Melissa closed her eyes and sat back heavily. House kept his focus on Wilson; he’d never admit it, but he’d always liked watching him in these situations.

“Hey,” Wilson said softly. “Most people are able to control their epilepsy with medication—especially when the seizures are mild, like yours seem to be. If you have epilepsy, that is.”

Melissa opened her eyes. “You’re a doctor. Can—can you examine me?”

“Yes,” House said. “You’ll need to disrobe.”

“OK, Greg.” Wilson turned to him with a fake smile. “That’s enough joking around.” He looked back at Melissa. “I can’t. I’m not practicing anymore. I’m not even licensed to practice in California.”

“Why aren’t you practicing?” she asked, then looked down at her hands. “I mean, if you don’t mind my asking.”

“Um.” Wilson scratched at an eyebrow. “Well, long story short, I was diagnosed with cancer last year, and…I needed time away.”

Melissa’s eyes widened then softened in sympathy. “Oh, no. But…Are you cured now?”

Wilson shook his head. “I’m in remission, not cured. We, uh, just have to see what happens.”

House cleared his throat; this didn’t need to go any farther. “All right,” he sing-songed. “I think we’ve taken up enough of this nice epileptic lady’s time.”

He pushed to his feet, and Melissa quickly rose and held out a hand. “Mr. Daniels, thank you for all your help. I guess I was lucky my mom found a P.I. who happens to know medicine.”

“Yep.” House started for the door.

“Wait. What do I owe you?”

_Oh, right._

He turned around. “How about fifty bucks? That’s my baseline hourly rate.”

Wilson, who had just slowly stood up, put a hand to the back of his neck. “I dunno. It doesn’t feel right to take any money from you.”

“Why?” House and Melissa asked in unison.

Wilson shrugged. “Well, we didn’t really do anything.”

“Of course you did,” Melissa objected, grabbing her purse from the dining room table. She fished out some bills and handed them to House. “I would never have thought to see a doctor if it weren’t for you.”

Wilson looked like he was going to protest some more, but then nodded in defeat. He followed House as far as the porch before—predictably—turning back to their damsel. “So, um, you have my cell number. I’d really like to know how this turns out.”

Melissa smiled. “Sure. Thank you, Dr. Wilson. And thank you again, Mr. Daniels.”

House grunted and continued to the car. He’d never been comfortable with _thank you’s._ Fortunately, he didn’t get many.

As soon as they were both in the car, he turned on Wilson. “Nice move, finding an excuse for her to call you.”

Wilson pressed his lips together. “I just wanna know how it goes with the doctor,” he insisted. “Aren’t you curious to see if you’re right?”

“I know I’m right. About the epilepsy _and_ you.”

Wilson lolled his head against the seat. “House, she’s twenty years younger than I am.”

“A lot of these young women have a thing for middle-aged has-beens like you. Don’t you ever go on Tumblr?”

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose. “OK,” he muttered. “I’m gonna _let go,_ like that meditation book suggests.” He looked at House, with a sort of forced serenity. “You wanna get a drink?”

That was the most reasonable proposal Wilson had made in days. House almost smiled. “You know just what to say to a guy.”

Wilson turned away and closed his eyes. “Oh, and congratulations on solving your first case,” he said off-handedly.

House started the car but paused before pulling out of the driveway. He’d be lying if he didn’t admit it felt good to solve a new puzzle, however elementary.

“Thanks,” he mumbled.

Wilson had the grace to pretend he didn’t hear.

 

*******

 

They managed to land in a bar with decent beer on tap, though the music—that San Francisco neo-hippie shit—left a lot to be desired. On the bright side, House had found a few fluffy-haired, college-age morons to school in the art of darts.

In his experience, prospective opponents always assumed he’d be easy to out-dart because of the cane. But the thing most amateurs did wrong was to lean too much weight into their forward leg; since he couldn’t put all his weight in his right leg, he naturally maintained a more balanced stance. Hence, his dart supremacy.

“Yes!” House hissed as his dart nailed one of the inner rings. “That’s sixty points, bitches.”

The leader of the fluffyheads looked skyward, as if beseeching the gods of bar games. “Dude. You’re killing me. How do you hit ’em like that every time?”

“Age and wisdom.” House downed the rest of his beer. “Also, I only abuse very high-quality drugs. I trust the same is not true of you.”

One of the other fluffyheads grinned and pointed an index finger at him. “False. We grow our own, under strict quality-control measures.”

The other two laughed in that lazy Northern California way.

“Really?” House said. “We should stay in touch after this is all over. Speaking of.” He got in place to toss his third dart, and…Bull’s-fucking-eye.

His opponents all groaned as House raised a fist into the air. “Sweet victory,” he proclaimed, then automatically looked around for Wilson to properly gloat.

He scanned the bar until he spotted Wilson sitting at a table…with a strange man.

_Huh._

The guy looked to be House’s age, and was wearing a fairly expensive-looking suit. His tie was loosened, and his salt-and-pepper hair was artfully mussed. Most curiously, he seemed to be leaning into Wilson’s personal space, and Wilson was letting him.

In fact, House slowly registered, Wilson was subtly angling toward the guy, who had just slid his chair closer. A mental alarm rang out—something like the sound submarines make when a torpedo strikes—but House felt frozen in place.

It wasn’t until the guy slipped one hand under the table, and presumably to Wilson’s knee, that House was propelled into action. He made a beeline for the table, vaguely noting the dart fluffheads _Aww-ing_ behind him.

He limped right up to the couple, then just hovered over them silently—aware that he probably appeared deranged.

_Good. Maybe this asshole will run away._

Wilson looked up and gave him a phony, syrupy smile. “Oh, hey, Greg. I was just telling Mark about you—about our new business.”

House looked down at _Mark’s_ hand, and saw that his fingertips were just grazing Wilson’s knee. He gripped his cane tighter. “Oh, really, James? What were you telling him?”

“Mark’s a lawyer,” Wilson said, slowly, pointedly. “And I was telling him about your P.I. services.”

Douchebag-At-Law held the offending hand out to House. “Nice to meet you, Greg.”

House just nodded. “You’re in need of some services, Mark?”

Slick Mark laughed lightly. “Well, James is doing a good job of convincing me I am.” He looked at House and shrugged sheepishly. “I was just trying to buy him a drink.”

House snorted. “That so? Sorry, but you’re barking up—”

“Greg,” Wilson cut in. “Why don’t you grab that chair and sit down with us?”

House narrowed his eyes, unsure what the manipulative bitch was playing at. But he did as asked and took a seat.

“So,” Wilson began brightly, “Mark is also pretty new to Sebastopol, and he has a solo law practice.”

“Moved here from San Fran,” Mark embellished. “I needed to get away from the craziness, which included my ex-boyfriend.”

“Fascinating stuff,” House cooed. “Now, why do I care?”

Mark blinked.

“He has more legwork than he can handle by himself,” Wilson spoke in a rush. “He needs someone to help with tracking down witnesses, doing interviews, stuff like that.”

House just kept glaring at Mark, who was now giving it right back. Wilson cleared his throat.

“Anyway, I was saying we could probably help him out. And he seemed interested…though I get the feeling that may have passed.”

Mark looked at Wilson, and his features softened. “Well,” he hedged, tapping his empty wine glass. “Do you two always work together?”

“Nope,” House said. “But we do live together.”

The way Mark’s face fell at that statement was immensely satisfying.

“I see,” he murmured, eyes on his wine glass. After a moment, he sighed and turned to Wilson. “The truth is, I am overwhelmed right now. I’m trying to do the small-town lawyer thing and take any case that comes my way—domestic, criminal, personal injury, whatever. I thought I could do it all.”

Wilson smiled gently. “No one can do it all.”

Mark returned the smile, and House valiantly fought back his gag reflex. “Does this mean you wanna hire me?” he interjected. “I require a deposit ahead of each case, cash or check.”

Mark huffed a little laugh and shook his head. “I’m willing to hire you _both_ on a trial basis, if you’ll excuse the pun. No offense, but I trust James more.”

“Yes,” House said with a faux smile. “You _trust_ him.”

“Oh-kay.” Wilson clapped his hands together. “We can iron out the details when we’re in a more professional setting. For now, why don’t we have one more round?”

“I’m the DD,” House reminded him, then looked directly at the ambulance chaser. “I’ll just sit here and supervise.”

“Great,” Mark said, with none of the enthusiasm the word entailed. “I’ll get this round, too,” he told Wilson. “I’d like to stretch my legs anyway. Sticking with the beer?”

“Yes, thanks.”

As soon as Mark was out of earshot, House launched his interrogation. “What the hell was that?”

Wilson smirked. “That was me getting you a new client. Didn’t you watch the DVD?”

“Yeah. I missed the part where it advised flirting with gay lawyers.”

“It said that a successful P.I. business requires persistence, quick thinking, creativity and charm. You have the first three.”

“So you’re gonna build our client list via flirting?”

Wilson looked offended. “Of course not. Mark came over and started flirting with _me._ I just…saw an opportunity to make a friend.”

House scoffed. “A friend. Yeah, that’s totally what he wanted. And you know, Dr. Nice Guy, it was pretty shitty to lead him on like that.”

Wilson screwed up his face. “I’m sure he’ll get over the devastation. Anyway, why are you so pissed? How many times have I flirted with women with no intention of it going anywhere?”

House kept his mouth shut, so Wilson raised his eyebrows. “Is it just because he’s a guy?”

House had no answer. He didn’t know why Wilson’s display had rattled him so much, and he didn’t care to analyze it. He was actually almost relieved to see Mark Asshole, Esquire heading back.

Once settled in, Mark lifted his pompous wine glass in toast. Wilson dutifully held his beer aloft, and House reluctantly reached for the abandoned water glass on the table next to them.

“To what will hopefully be a very fruitful working relationship,” Mark pronounced.

House nodded. “To fruit.”

Wilson shot him a look, then smiled tightly. “Cheers.”

They all clinked glasses.

 

*******

 

House spent the next day on the road, meandering around the surrounding county. By sheer luck, he found a windy, oak-lined road that led to a hilltop vineyard, and free wine-tasting.

He’d never been huge on wine, but the view from the hill, and the wide-open space around him, were pretty sweet. Home, he’d realized, was starting to feel a little too snug. And weird. It was snug and weird.

He briefly considered staying in wine country and grabbing a room somewhere for the night, or even continuing to San Fran. But he figured Wilson might freak. And, if he were honest, the thought of Wilson alone in the tiny house, with no car, was unsettling.

It was a stupid worry, but that’s what he’d become: A guy who worried about what could happen.

When House arrived home early-evening, Wilson was once again waiting for him. And once again, he wondered what fresh horror would be laid before him.

Wilson grinned. “C’mon out back. I have a surprise for you.”

“Sounds like you’re gonna pop a cap in me.”

Wilson just tilted his head toward the front door. “C’mon.”

House made some grumbling noises, but obediently followed Wilson outside.

“Are you gonna show me how big your melons have gotten?” he asked as they rounded the house. “Because I have a feeling…”

He stopped in his tracks at the odd sight in front of him. Next to the garden, a large patch of grass had been cleared to make room for a Rubbermaid-looking tank of some kind. The tank was attached by two pipes to what looked like a wood-burning stove, and the whole set-up was contained under a wooden frame—with four posts and a couple beams on top.

House hadn’t been able to see it driving up from the other side of the tiny house.

He turned to Wilson, who was looking at him expectantly. “So if this garden doesn’t work out, you’re gonna cook me in that thing?”

Wilson rolled his eyes. “Nooo. It’s your new hot tub.”

House stared at the contraption, not sure what to think. It looked a little…precarious.

Wilson bit his lip. “The tub is a water trough for cattle,” he explained with a little laugh. “I bought it from the farm supply store. Peter gave me the wood-burner. He said he’s upgrading and doesn’t need it anymore.”

House limped closer to look into the tub, which was nearly filled with water.

“It’s not hot yet,” Wilson said, coming up behind him. “That’s the downside. It takes about two hours to heat up. So no spontaneous soaks…But it’s better than no bath at all, right?”

House found he couldn’t speak. He took hold of one of the wood posts and shook it, half-expecting the whole thing to come crashing down.

“Don’t worry,” Wilson assured. “Peter and his brother did most of this. I barely had a hand in it.”

House nodded.

“You can hold onto those horizontal rails to get in and out,” he heard Wilson say. He just nodded again.

“House?”

He looked at Wilson, who was now wearing his concerned face. “Um…Do you like it?”

House glanced back at the makeshift hot tub. It was a livestock trough, attached to a stove, sitting in the backyard of a tiny house. It was fucking ridiculous.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “It’s good.”

Wilson gave him a small, relieved-looking smile. “OK. If you wanna give it a test run, the water should be hot enough in a half-hour or so.”

“’Kay.”

Wilson hesitated, like he was going to say something, but instead turned on his heel and started back inside.

“Hey,” House called after him, then waited for Wilson to face him. “ _This_ was your secret project?”

Wilson looked at the ground. “Yeah,” he said, sounding embarrassed—and possibly readying for a verbal assault.

House scratched at his stubble. “This isn’t what I was expecting.”

Wilson just held his gaze for a moment before nodding. “Good.”

House couldn’t help smiling a little. And as Wilson continued into the house, he turned back to his DIY hot tub. It was weird and possibly dangerous, but brilliant at the same time. It was, he had to admit, a perfect fit.

 

 

_**—TBC** _


End file.
